Undertook
by Droce
Summary: Why else would he abandon the place of a god, only to become a mortician? Undertaker/corpse(?) Blatant warning for necrophilia, gore. Oneshot.


Of course, it's the least orthodox means of getting laid; that was simple enough to figure out, when he's closing shop and taking off the hat, slipping out of the over-robe, both to the coat rack, hands to push his hair from his face.  
>Why <em>else<em> would he abandon the place of a God, and immediately go to being a _Mortician?_ _The dead were beautiful_, he'd cooed, his reasoning, _the mourning were desperate,_his voice high, drunk on enthusiasm, _and the death was arousing._

The gift of reapers, feel the dead as they were alive, without the warmth, with every bit of the movement, the pulsation, there wasn't a reason in the world for him to _resist,_and there wasn't means for them to _try_ to. The skin, the pulsation, the softness, the softness, _the softness,_ and lack of intimacy, _the upmost intimacy,_ the absolution of_contact._

When he's in the morgue, the air is frigid, and the heat under the suit kisses unbearability, and it's not _frantic,_ but hurried, to pull off the tie, the waistcoat, pull off the braces. There was _passion_ in him, of course, granted- just an absolute lack of passion for the _living._

It's the least orthodox means of getting laid; that's simple enough, when he pulls open a drawer of the morgue, one of the _prettiest_ and _freshest_ available to him, taken out with care- being gentle, almost as one would a lover. She was young, at that, a widow; she'd _died_ beautiful, throat cut to near-decapitation, _it would've been so much better to pull from under the maxilla_, he'd hissed through his teeth, when he's setting her down in the examining table.

To run his hands over the cold meat, the flesh, to _feel_ the way her heart would've beat, slip his hands under the autopsy incisions, feel the had-been movement of what would've been breath, the tremors of a heartbeat, the shiver of the esophagus, swallowing saliva. There's definite _passion_ in fucking a dead woman, nor was it always_women-_ it was always the pretty ones, the ones most intact, the most _gruesome_ and least rotted.

It's almost gentle, when he unbuttons his trousers, and presses into her corpse, prepared by himself earlier, _just for this,_ to feel what would've been the reactions of the flesh, the tightening, the raise of a spine. The corpse was unmoving, the corpse was quiet and still and absolutely, positively _dead-_ the gift of the reapers, to feel the dead as though they still breathed.

He's careful, and not so much, when he's groping at her tit, careful not to scrape the skin, or thrusting into the meat of her cunt, so as not to bruise it further, but there's no kindness, when he grabs at the wound that killed her, fingers digging into the esophagus, the throat, fingering them, desperately feeling the emptied capillaries and veins; it's _needy,_ to feel her dying breaths, contractions, _the choking and begging for air._

God forbid he last longer than a few minutes; with something of _this_ caliber, it doesn't take long, and this time, he doesn't _care_ if it's inside the body.

He's the Mortician, carer of the body, send her off to Heaven with _beauty_ and _dignity_-  
>What <em>bullshit,<em> as he tugs his pants back up, properly, adjusting his shirt to place. She was a noblewoman, before she'd died, and he notes, they're usually dealt a much more _unsightly_ ending. It was granted, however, that the poor couldn't _afford_ a mortician.

Mass graves were an absolute _waste._ He'd snort, both hands to push his hair out of the way, to tie it back- and _now,_ was the shining hour to bring her to _perfection,_ and _life again._ It was frowned upon, that much was granted. To bring the dead to life, a false sense, bizarre and broken dolls, his magnum opus.

She was a noblewoman, he'd note, and she was a _dead_ woman.

It's the least orthodox means of getting laid, when he breathes life back into the cold, unbreathing mouth of a dead woman, but it's certainly _a_ means, when he digs his fingers into either side of the squirming flesh of her slit throat, fingering the esophagus and windpipe, and pulls it _entirely_ apart**.**


End file.
